Midwestern Sunsets


Bruised skies crack my lips,
clouds gouged into a bleeding of blue and orange.
The earth inhales
and empties its breath onto the land.
It ruffles the silence of the fields
that have long been stripped
of their mother's gentle caress.
And I smile
at the single silhouette of a brave tree
against an indifferent horizon.
I guess dead things can be pretty.

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